


a resounding success

by starstrung



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Collars, Dancing, Dom/sub Undertones, Domesticity, Kink Negotiation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27708545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstrung/pseuds/starstrung
Summary: Zolf helps Wilde clean out his old London flat.
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 19
Kudos: 92





	a resounding success

Eventually, the world pulls itself back together and carries on.

Being back in London is disorienting to say the least. The people of London know how to pick up after a disaster and bravely soldier on, and there’s an air of bloody-minded resolve, tempered with new hope that the hardship will be over soon. That the world will recover.

It’s been nearly two years since Wilde has set foot in his flat. He finds it all just as he left it, dust covering every surface, unwashed cups of tea still on the counter.

Zolf comes in behind him and makes a face, putting down their luggage. “Sometimes I forget how flamboyant your tastes were.”

Wilde gives him a wry smile. “Yes, they quite were.” All the furniture is garishly upholstered, the rugs are plush and thick, and all the walls are covered in paintings. Wilde had loved nothing more than to surround himself with beauty, to be beautiful himself. 

Wilde rubs his scar and sighs, feeling a strange sense of grief for his younger self. How things have changed.

Zolf pats his arm. “Let’s get to work,” he says, practical-minded as always. Wilde is infinitely grateful to him for it.

“Yes, of course,” Wilde says, and he opens his mouth and begins to cast. 

The dust lifts away in curtains, the grime melts away. It’s only been two months since Wilde’s curse was lifted, courtesy of the Ursine druids in the Northern Wastes, and the novelty of it hasn’t worn off for him. He’s been casting magic any chance he can get lately, to the point where Zolf gets irritated at him for floating a cup of tea to bed instead of getting it himself.

Wilde walks around the flat, clearing away the dust, while Zolf opens every window, letting out the stuffy air, and cleaning out what little remains Wilde had left behind in the pantry. Wilde has gotten almost every corner tidied up, except for the spiders, which remain stubbornly resistant to his prestidigitation spell.

“Go away,” Wilde says sourly to a particularly industrious spider that has covered an entire corner in webs.

“Don’t think that’s going to get it to leave,” Zolf says, amused. 

“Well, it can’t _stay_ here.”

“No, it probably can’t.”

There is a pause.

“Zolf,” Wilde says, sweetly.

“No, Oscar, I got the last one,” Zolf says immediately.

“You _know_ I hate them,” Wilde says, shuddering.

“They’re just spiders! They’re more afraid of you than the other way around. Besides, you should learn how to — oh, for fuck’s sake, fine.” Zolf marches over, stands up on the table, and patiently brushes the spider into a jar. He does this for the remaining spiders, grumbling under his breath, while Wilde does his best not to grin _too_ triumphantly. 

Zolf comes back from letting the spiders free out in the courtyard and glares up at Wilde.

“There. Happy?” he says.

“Yes,” Wilde says, incandescent. 

Zolf’s eyes soften. He turns away, making an annoyed noise. “You have so many _things_. It’s going to take ages to get everything sorted.”

“Most of it we can get rid of,” Wilde says.

“You sure?” Zolf asks. “Nothing you’re sentimental of?”

Wilde looks at Zolf, standing in the middle of a flat that he hasn’t called home in a very long time. “I’m sure,” Wilde says.

  
  
  


Having Zolf go through the remnants of his past life with him is a strange ordeal, to say the least. Zolf is in open disbelief about the state of his closet, so full of satin and velvet and riotous color. Wilde does stroke his hand over an old favorite velvet coat, bright magenta. He seduced a good portion of London’s upper society while wearing this very same coat. 

“I can’t believe these are all for one man,” Zolf says, shaking his head.

“Oh, yes,” Wilde says. “Although they’re all out of season now, unfortunately.”

“Don’t think people are really concerned about _seasons_ anymore.”

“You’d be surprised,” Wilde says, with a wry smile. He has no doubt that some of his old friends are still just as concerned with appearances as they were before.

He takes the velvet coat, crushing it up against his chest. “I’ll take this. The rest we can get rid of.”

Zolf snorts. “All right then.”

They take all the paintings off the wall and then lean them all together. Wilde will find a way to donate them to a gallery or museum somewhere. Many of them had been gifts from past lovers. Not bad work. There is even a portrait of him as well — Wilde had remembered posing for it.

He winces, now, when Zolf pulls it off the wall, his eyebrows raised. It’s a small thing, hastily done. Wilde had barely known anyone in London, then, and was living with the painter Frank Miles, who had needed practice painting portraits and had asked one night for Wilde to model for him. In the painting, Wilde is in his shirtsleeves, lounging back on a green chaise, an obnoxious look on his face. Wilde feels a visceral hatred rise up in his throat.

Zolf studies the portrait for a long time. “You look so young in this,” he says. 

Wilde looks at it again, trying to see what Zolf is seeing. Now he notices the defiant smirk, the unlined face. “It was a long time ago,” he says. “It’s very vain of me to keep a portrait of myself, I know.”

“I want to keep it,” Zolf says.

“What?” Wilde says, startled. “Zolf, you know I slept with the painter, right? On that very chaise, in fact.”

Zolf looks at him, exasperated. “Oscar, you’ve slept with half of London, that’s not exactly news.”

“Why in the world would you want to keep it?” Wilde says. He has half a mind to pry it out of Zolf’s hands and tear the damn thing in half. 

“I didn’t know you back then—” Zolf says.

“—and you would have hated me if you did,” Wilde reminds him.

“Yes, fine,” Zolf says, his lips twitching. “But the thing is, I love you _now_.”

It stills steals his breath, the easy way Zolf says this sometimes. 

“The man in that portrait isn’t _me_ anymore,” Wilde says.

Zolf has that stubborn look in his eyes. “You couldn’t have got to who you are now without him stumbling through it the first time, right? That’s true for me. It’s true for you, too. I think that’s worth remembering. It’s worth saving.”

Wilde opens his mouth, and then closes it again. 

“Look, I won’t take it if you don’t want me to,” Zolf tells him. “But don’t think for a second I don’t love every version of you there ever was, all right? Doesn’t matter how much of a prat I thought you were at the time. Not like I was a bucket of sunshine either.” Zolf sets the portrait down, leans it against the wall. A truce.

Wilde finally finds his tongue. “You’re not exactly a bucket of sunshine _now_ , Zolf.”

Zolf snorts, and the look he gives Wilde then has Wilde coming over to him and bending down and kissing him. If his whole life _had_ led up to this very moment, kneeling on the floor, holding Zolf in his arms, then perhaps it had been worth it after all, Wilde thinks.

  
  
  


Zolf finishes brushing his teeth and comes to the bed. Wilde is there, already. He’s sore from moving so many things, and curls up around Zolf immediately when he slides under the covers.

“Oh, hang on, what’s this?” Zolf says, peeking under the bed. He pulls out a heavy box, hoisting it up onto the bed.

“Oh, no, that’s—” Wilde says, but Zolf is already opening it.

“Ah,” Zolf says, poignantly. He looks at Wilde. “Quite a, er, collection.”

Wilde hides a smile. “Yes. I had a much more extensive collection in Paris, but I believe it was lost in a fire.”

“Heartbreaking,” Zolf says, dryly. He reaches in and picks up a familiar leather collar. Wilde’s heart sinks. Of all the things for Zolf to pick up, it would have to be that one.

“That one was a gift,” Wilde says.

Zolf must hear something in Wilde’s voice, then, because he gives him a concerned look. “Not a gift from someone you parted with on good terms, I take it?”

Wilde lets out a breath. “You know me and my sordid past too well, Zolf. Pretty soon I won’t have any surprises left.”

“I don’t think you’ll ever stop surprising me, actually,” Zolf says, dry. “So?”

“Yes, it was. From Bosie, actually,” Wilde says. He feels Zolf stiffen. Wilde has told Zolf about Bosie, about how they left things. He can sense Zolf’s quiet seething rage every time he brings Bosie up.

“He put a collar on you?” Zolf says, angrily.

Wilde smiles. “I did enjoy it at the time, Zolf,” he says, gently.

He sees Zolf consider this. Zolf may not really _get_ why Wilde finds sexual gratification in the things that he does, but he’s always done his best to at least know where Wilde is coming from. It's endearing, and Wilde loves him for it.

“So it’s, what, about being owned or something? That’s the appeal?” Zolf asks.

Wilde hums thoughtfully. “I suppose. It’s also about being put in your place. Being guided, being directed, not having to think. Letting someone else make the decisions.”

Zolf looks skeptical. “You? _You_ want someone else to make the decisions?”

“If it’s in bed?” Wilde says, with a smirk. “With a clear beginning and end? Yes.”

A look of epiphany comes across Zolf’s face. “It’s a performance.”

“If you like.”

“Huh.”

“In any case, that box will be joining the things that we’re tossing,” Wilde says. He takes the collar from Zolf’s hand, puts it back in the box, and then sets the box beneath the bed again. And then he pulls Zolf to lie down with him, curling his limbs back around him like a cat and keeping him in place. It’s gotten chilly in the flat, and Wilde takes advantage of Zolf’s warmth by nuzzling into him.

“You forgot to turn out the light,” Zolf says.

“No, I didn’t,” Wilde says, and with a flourish, he extinguishes the lamp.

“Bloody show-off,” Zolf mutters.

  
  
  
  


“As if saving the world wasn’t enough,” Zolf says, grimly, “now they’re making us go to a _party_ about it.” He tosses the invitation back onto the table with an annoyed flick of his wrist. It narrowly misses Wilde’s morning cup of tea.

Wilde doesn’t say anything. He traces the embossed lettering on the invitation thoughtfully, making a mental tally of how many of his former enemies and rivals will also be invited to this. He loses count after a while.

“Too bad Azu and Hamid and Cel are off in Egypt,” Wilde says. “We could have asked them to come with us, at least.”

“Lucky them,” Zolf says, darkly.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” Wilde says. 

“Are _you_ going?”

“Yes, of course. One of us has to.”

“Then I’m fucking going,” Zolf says decisively.

Wilde smiles at him. “You’ll have to dress up, you know.”

“I know,” Zolf says. “What’s the matter, you don’t want me to come?”

It’s only because Wilde has known Zolf for this long that he senses the vulnerability in Zolf’s question. He takes Zolf’s hand from across the table. “Having you there will make the evening bearable, Zolf,” Wilde says. “It’s going to be like a pack of wolves in there.”

“Think I could get away with wearing armor then?” Zolf says. "Easier to scare them off that way."

Wilde thinks wistfully of Zolf showing up in full breastplate, his glaive at his side. It’s certainly an image.

“As much as I would love to see that happen, I think it’s best you let me buy you an outfit. We can go shopping tomorrow.” The thought of going shopping does brighten Wilde up considerably. 

Zolf, meanwhile, looks even more grim than he had before. “Fine.”

“Oh, and you’ll need to dance,” Wilde says, enthusiastically.

Zolf rears back in horror. “Absolutely not. I can’t dance, Oscar.”

“I can teach you,” Wilde says. Now that he knows that Zolf will be there at his side, he finds that he is looking forward to this evening after all. He gets to his feet and rummages in one of his boxes.

“I thought I saw — ah yes, here it is.” He pulls out his old gramophone. A few records. Not many to choose from — Wilde never had the patience to build out his record collection, but he did have a few pieces he liked here and there. At least one of them is a waltz.

“You can’t be serious,” Zolf says, when music begins to play. Wilde holds out his hand.

“I’m serious,” Wilde says.

“You’re still in your dressing gown,” Zolf protests. “I haven’t even finished my breakfast yet.” But, with a put-upon sigh, he takes Wilde’s hand.

Wilde guides them in a dance. It’s not a waltz at all, and it’s barely even in rhythm with the music, but Wilde is too full of joy to really care. He takes them through the steps, laughing when both of them fumble it up, too distracted with where to place their feet to really pay attention to the music.

Zolf resigns himself to it, even starts to enjoy it a little, shaking his head when Wilde can’t seem to stop grinning, and doing his best to spin Wilde around. The waltz ends, the record scratches to a halt, but still Wilde wants this to go on forever, and ever.

  
  
  


“Don’t you already have enough clothes to wear?” Zolf says.

“Cheer up, Zolf,” Wilde says, distracted, adjusting his collar. “Some people actually enjoy this sort of thing, you know.”

“Some people, meaning you,” Zolf says. He looks Wilde up and down. “I swear there’s enough sequins on you to blind a bat.”

Wilde grins, looking down at himself. They’re in one of the most fashionable clothing boutiques in London. It’s the first time Wilde has been to one since before everything fell apart, and it’s more than likely he’s getting a little carried away. This is his eleventh outfit, and he still hasn’t made up his mind.

“Is it too many sequins though?” Wilde says, looking at himself contemplatively in the mirror. “Perhaps the other one, with the embroidery, would be more tasteful?”

He sees Zolf, in the mirror, rub at his face. “Was that before or after the one that made you look like a drunken peacock, dear?”

“Oh, after, definitely,” Wilde says, turning to look at himself. He _does_ like how this brings out his arse. Perhaps he’ll get two outfits today.

He sees Zolf sigh, aggrieved, and sink further into his chair until his chin is nearly resting on his chest, and all Wilde can see of him from this angle are the tufts of his beard. 

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Wilde says, smiling to himself.

There is a muffled sound of outrage. “That’s the pot calling the kettle black, that is.”

“Sounds a bit too monochromatic for me,” Wilde says, throwing the beaded scarf around his shoulders with a flourish.

He turns to the attendant, who has been watching them bicker with a mild expression on their face this entire time. “I’ll take this one, I think. And the suit from before.” He points at the embroidered suit. The attendant nods, and begins to box up Wilde’s purchases.

“Finally,” Zolf says, hopping to his feet. “Ready to go?”

“Sure you don’t want something for yourself?” Wilde says. 

“I highly doubt there is anything within a kilometer radius of this place that I would willingly put on my body. Besides, you already got me my suit, remember?”

“Are you certain?” Wilde says, enjoying himself. “You’d look absolutely ravishing in violet, I think.”

Zolf narrows his eyes. “Don’t you dare.”

Wilde just throws his head back and laughs.

Eventually, though, Wilde does put Zolf out of his misery. He has the clothes sent to the flat, and then he pulls Zolf along the streets to his favorite cafe by the river. By the time they get back, Wilde feels flushed and happy, his scar aching in his cheek from how hard he’s been smiling.

He immediately pulls Zolf to the bed and begins undressing him.

Zolf stops him.

Wilde raises his eyebrows. “Not tonight?” he asks, removing his hands. He can usually tell beforehand whether or not Zolf is in the mood, but he’s been wrong about it before.

Zolf shakes his head. “I want to undress you,” he says, his voice low.

Wilde feels arousal surge through him. “Oh, Zolf,” he says, thrilled.

“I’ve been watching you prance around in your pretty things for _hours_ ,” Zolf says. He sits Wilde down at the edge of the bed and begins unbuttoning Wilde’s waistcoat, one button at a time. “You’ve been dressing and undressing in front of me all day. I think it’s my turn.”

Wilde can’t help but squirm a little at the heat in Zolf’s voice. He _loves_ when Zolf gets like this, when he knows what he wants from Wilde and knows how to ask for it, how to take it. Wilde very much wants to give it to him.

Zolf finishes unbuttoning Wilde’s waistcoat, but instead of pushing it off his shoulders, he taps a finger under Wilde’s chin. Wilde obediently raises it, giving Zolf access to untie his cravat. The first time Zolf did this, Wilde had to show him how, patiently guiding his fingers. But by now, Zolf does it with practiced, careless ease, and when Wilde’s throat is exposed, Zolf traces the skin there with his fingers, 

Wilde closes his eyes, and sighs. There are some days Wilde thinks he knows Zolf’s hands better than he knows himself. He knows what his fingers feel like in his mouth, he knows what his palm feels like laid against his heart. 

“I got you something,” Zolf says, quietly.

Wilde opens his eyes and looks at him. Zolf’s eyes are dark, intense, but Wilde can tell that he’s nervous about something too.

“What is it?” he asks.

Zolf goes to his discarded coat and pulls out a wooden box, about the size of a book. He hands it to Wilde. Wilde opens it immediately.

Inside, there is a leather collar. It’s slim and delicate, the leather soft-looking and clearly well made. Wilde runs a finger over it, admiring the feel of it.

“It’s beautiful,” he says. “Zolf, when did you—”

“Got it made,” Zolf says. He’s slightly pink. “While you were off, you know, trying on your clothes. Don’t really know about all of that. But if this is something you want, then I’d — I’d like to give it to you.”

“Yes,” Wilde says, happily. “Please.”

“Good, then,” Zolf says. He takes the collar out of the box, unbuckles it, and slowly, deliberately, he puts the collar around Wilde’s neck. It sits comfortably, just tight enough that Wilde can feel it marking the skin of his throat, but loose enough that he could keep it on for hours. Wilde swallows, feels it press against his adam’s apple. He _wants_ to keep it on for hours.

“It feels all right?” Zolf asks. He hooks a finger into it, testing the fit.

Wilde shudders at the feeling of it, his spine bowing. Zolf immediately draws his hand back like he’s been burnt.

“Is it too tight?” Zolf asks, alarmed.

“No, I—” He’s gone hoarse. Wilde clears his throat and tries again. “It’s perfect, Zolf. Thank you.” He can already feel how affected he is, just from this simple strip of leather that Zolf had made for _him_ , just for him. 

“Oh,” Zolf says, and there is a slow grin coming across his face. “You like it that much, do you? You’re a fucking revelation, you know that?”

“ _Zolf_ ,” Wilde whines. It’s already overwhelming when Zolf praises him. Doing it now, wearing this collar for Zolf, it all gets amplified. He feels like he’s vibrating out of his skin.

“I’m here,” Zolf says. He slots between Wilde’s legs so easily, kissing him softly. Wilde pushes into it, hungrily sliding his tongue into Zolf’s mouth, chasing after the heat that he can feel rising between them, but Zolf draws back and tuts at him.

“Not yet,” Zolf says. “Still need to undress you.”

Zolf slides the waistcoat from Wilde’s shoulders, and then he unbuttons Wilde’s shirt, pulling it out of his trousers. He does everything with a measure of care, an attentiveness that Wilde doesn’t exactly know how to react to, except that it fills him with a heavy warmth. He guides his arms where Zolf tells him to, and he trusts him. It’s simple, after that.

“Stand up for me,” Zolf says. He helps Wilde to his feet, and takes off his trousers, letting Wilde step out of them. Zolf hooks a finger in his underwear and slides this off as well, leaving Wilde completely naked, exposed.

“On the bed,” Zolf says. 

Wilde complies, scooting backwards onto the mattress. Zolf follows after him, bracing himself over Wilde on the bed. He traces the collar again, playing with it, tugging a little at it, like he’s admiring the way it looks. 

Wilde lets out a sharp exhale. His legs fall open, and his head is filled with nothing but a pleasant, singing static, like there is magic building up in him, waiting to be cast. He wants to see what Zolf will do with him. He wants so badly to be good for him.

“Look at you,” Zolf says, in one long breath. “Pretty, and all mine. Right?”

Wilde can only nod, too overwhelmed to speak.

Zolf makes a pleased noise, and then he kisses Wilde again. This time, he gives Wilde more of what he wants, lets Wilde suck Zolf’s tongue into his mouth, Wilde’s teeth pulling at Zolf’s lip. Wilde puts a hand on the back of Zolf’s neck, tugging at the short hairs there, and Zolf huffs a laugh against Wilde’s lips.

“Behave,” he says.

“Or what?” Wilde says, making it a challenge. 

He sees Zolf’s eyes gleam. Zolf does love a challenge, Wilde knows. In the spirit of making things difficult for him, Wilde arches up, his cock rubbing against Zolf’s leg, his throat fully on display so that Zolf can easily see his collar on Wilde’s neck, so that Zolf can see how driven out of his mind with need Wilde is. 

Zolf fits his hands tight over Wilde’s hips and pins him down, stops him from writhing. “You do want to come, don’t you?” Zolf growls into his ear. “Then _behave_.”

“Tighter,” Wilde says, with a gasp. “Bruise me, Zolf.”

“Fuck, Oscar,” Zolf says. His grip does tighten on Wilde’s hip, and then one hand moves to Wilde’s cock, brushing his fingers against it, nothing close to what Wilde needs. Wilde whines, trying to chase after that brief touch, but Zolf is holding him down securely.

“Could just keep you like this,” Zolf says, in a low voice. “Hard and aching for it, looking pretty with that collar ‘round your neck.”

 _Gods_. Wilde doesn’t know how Zolf keeps finding exactly the things to say to absolutely take Wilde apart. He always does, he’s always provoked Wilde, ever since they first met. 

Zolf strokes Wilde’s cock again, harder this time, and Wilde is so close to the edge already, even with just this. All he needs is a little more, and then— 

But of course, Zolf chooses then to withdraw. “Tell me,” he says.

“I’m yours,” Wilde whispers. 

“Yeah,” Zolf says, his voice rough. “Yeah, you are.” He takes a hold of Wilde’s cock again, stroking him just the way Wilde likes, firm and so good, the pace of it enough to bring Wilde right back up to the edge. 

“You’ve done so good, Oscar,” Zolf says. “You can let go, you can—” Zolf leans down and bites at his throat, his teeth catching the sensitive skin right above the collar, and with that, Wilde is undone. He comes with a groan, completely helpless to it. Zolf doesn’t stop stroking him until he’s absolutely spent, and then they fall back onto the bed, blinking dazedly at each other.

“I think I would call that a resounding success,” Wilde says, once he’s caught his breath and magicked them both clean.

“Money well spent,” Zolf says in agreement. Wilde notices that Zolf’s eyes keep falling to the collar on his neck. He tilts his head back and preens, letting Zolf appreciate it more.

Zolf snorts. “You’re going to be insufferable about this, aren’t you? I can always return it.”

Wilde tucks his chin down protectively. “Don’t you dare,” he says. “I was thinking of wearing it to the party, actually. I think it would turn a few heads, don't you?”

Zolf splutters. “You will _not_ ,” he says, and Wilde laughs.


End file.
